


The Funny Thing About Fathers...

by atomicsupervillainess



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Academy Era, All of the fitz feels, But not a baby!Fic, Christmas Time, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Family, Fitz feels, Fitzsimmons week tumblr prompt, Gen, Intimate and soulful brotp, Mrs. Fitz is bae, Science Babies, domestic feels, inklings of romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-04-20 21:28:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4802804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atomicsupervillainess/pseuds/atomicsupervillainess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jemma's argument with her father has put Fitz on edge, as they stay over in Scotland for the Winter Hols. As the holiday unfolds, Jemma's understanding about her best friend, and his childhood, deepens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Funny Thing About Fathers...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notapepper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notapepper/gifts).



> This fic is for Notapepper, who longed for domestic (but non-baby-related) Fitzsimmons. Hope you enjoy, lovie!

_Funny thing about fathers,_ Jemma thinks, leaning against the chill of the window sill, her finger drawing tiny molecules into the condensation. She doesn’t end the thought. It just trails off, like her fingertip, drifting lightly against the glass - a jarred, forgotten line, as her knees draw up to her chest.

Her mind is spread wide like a sheet, the corners of it filling the quietness of the darkened room. Fitz’s breathing is weighty flannel, and it ruffles into tiny snores as he shifts, just texture in the small space - like his shelf of old thrift-store toy robots, half pulled apart and rebuilt, like the scratched wooden armoire or the child-sized desk that was never replaced with a new one, like the patchwork quilt (dotted with tufts of yarn) in which he cocoons, the heat radiating off him, even a foot away.

_Fathers. You’d think mothers would have that effect, when they didn’t agree with you, or when they were disappointed, but it always seems so much worse when it’s Dad - dads..._

Hers had always been good. Protective - overly so, yes, and he’d always expected so much from her, always wanted her to be this shining, valiant, brave valkyrie, it seemed, like some brilliantly clever science hero - which she wanted _as well_ , but…

Jemma sighed heavily. It was just one mark. She’d still scored in the top one percentile - Fitz being the only one to have scored higher, and _truly_ , what did it matter that she’d scored only a 93%, when Fitz had scored 98%, what did it matter if she got one test below her average? Everyone knew Professor Vaughn never gave full marks on exams - said it was impossible to be perfect, which was _patently illogical_ , and an unfair way of marking, in her estimation, but regardless, why had it bothered Dad so much? It was _one_ test! And she _wasn’t_ becoming distracted - least of all, with what he _implied_! She had only seen Agent Tad once, and that had fizzled, as per usual. There were no other men in her life - well, _Fitz_ , but that hardly counted.

...Though, would it _kill_ Dad to get his name right? Just _once_? It was a simple name - soon, hopefully, he would work through all the possible variations thereof.

Her sigh twists, tumbling over itself into an embittered mewl. She kicks her sock-foot against the little nokia that stares accusingly at her from the other side of the white sill.

* * *

 

“Call him, Simmons.” Fitz bit, frustration lacing his tone. He craned his head ‘round the beaded curtain that sectioned off the tiny kitchen from the living room of the flat, spilling sugar all around his tea cup, like so much confetti.

Jemma groaned in response and rolled her eyes.

“‘m _serious_ , Jem,” Fitz added, shoving the cutlery drawer shut with a hollow smack.

“He doesn’t even like you,” Jemma declared, flopping heavily into the sagging pit of the old armchair, wrenching her toque off her head, baby hairs hazing, frizzed like a frustrated halo around her face. “I don’t understand why it bothers you so much that we’re just a teensy, tiny, _miniscule_ bit on the outs,”

“It’s not _about_ tha’ -” His words tangled into a frustrated snarl as he tossed a teaspoon in the sink.

He weaved around the pile their suitcases and backpacks made, puddling on the floor. He came to stand beside her, where her wet socks steaming in the roar of the fire. He huffed, and shoved her tea-cup into her hands. “‘S hot.” He warned.

“... _Doesn’t matter_ if he doesn’t like me. He’s your dad - an’ that’s important. _Don_ ’ - I dunno, push him away, I guess?” Something was strung through his tone, like it was a shoelace tied to something else, something old and a little dusty, like a childhood treasure, tucked away in a little tin.

Fitz shrugged, sipped his tea, and absently scratched at the stubble by his ear. His eyes were a far away place, and the flickering fire made them glitter, glassy. “He’s the only one y’have,”

He cleared his throat, and toed off his sopping socks. “S’all, really.” Fitz shrugged, his shoulders rolling forward like a drawbridge clanging shut.

Jemma reached out as he turned aside, her fingers glancing down the cabling on his cardigan to fall gracelessly against his loose hand. The pads of her fingertips caught on the ridge of his knuckles, warmly. She’d never held his hand before - not like this, so purposefully - but she found her hand tunnelling into his closed grip, feathering her fingers in his, trying - softly, insistently - to give some comfort in his sudden, blue mood.

He squeezed her hand tightly, his smile a tightrope. With a shuffle, he bent down, awkwardly pressing a peck to the top of her head. “Drink your tea.”

He followed it with a ruffle of her disheveled hair, and went back to stack their luggage against the wall in a neat, compact pile, out of the way. “Mam’ll be finished ‘round midnight or so. She’s got a half-day tomorrow, but that’s normal Christmas Eve wi’ hospital staff an’ all. You’re still alright for midnight mass?”

Jemma nodded, watching him putter in this space, thinking of how like him it was. Or how like it, he was. All tidy warm woods, scrubbed and old - a little shabby and worn through, mismatched end tables and the surface of the coffee table scored deep, but cozy like plaid and flannel patches and cabled cardigans and corduroy, and sleepy, heavy-lashed eyes, warm and deep and blue.

He smiled up at her, his gaze flickering through those feather lashes, playing with the paper tab of his tea. His mouth unfurled along the corners, like a cat’s tail in the sun, and his high-held shoulders eased down, relaxing. He shifted his eyes, dropping them down to his milky tea, and nodded again.

The silence between them was like a breath. Deep and easy, it settled around. Jemma gestured for him, and he plodded over, barefoot, and slipped down onto the hardwood to lean against her knees.

Absently, her fingers began to card through the burr of his tangled curls, nails a soft drag against his scalp as she mused on her situation - the tiff between her and Dad. She wouldn’t have noticed even, if his head hadn’t rolled back into her touch, if the pleased rumble in his throat hadn’t been so audible, bringing her back to the present.

“‘s _nice_ ,” He murmured, feeling her smirk behind him.

“You’re just like a cat,” She chuckled, letting the silence tuck in around them, like a blanket.

"Say you'll talk to him," his tone was soft but insistent.

"I'll think about it."

* * *

 

Jemma tries to fold her thoughts back up, edge to edge, into the cabinet of her mind.

She eases into the sleeping bag that lays flush to the edge of Fitz’s bed, trying to will the air mattress not to squeak. It should have been mothers that caused such concern. Mother’s birthed you, after all, fed you and clothed you and were always around, and seemed to know all about your little secret hurts and cares.

 _But_ , Jemma thinks, shifting to her side, _Mothers are different. With them, you don't need to strive for their good opinion, because you always have it. They love you endlessly._

__

* * *

 

"Oh to be sure, he was a pudgy wee thing, you'd hardly know't to look at him now, skinny as a string bean," Mrs. Fitz chuckled heartily, "looked more like me then than he does now, but I'm thinking weight-watchers might work?"

"You're not fat, mam," Fitz groused, brushing away biscuit crumbs as he fiddled with wiring of the ancient television set.

She shot him a raised eyebrow, her mouth wryly humorous.

"You're just...designed for comfort."  He attempted.

This earned him two raised eyebrows, and a scandalized, " _Leopold!_ "

Simmons snorted into her cider.

"That's _not_ \- I _meant-_! As in, you know, _huggin'_ and stuff..." He gestured ineffectually, his face a mask of embarrassment. “Forget I said anything,” Immediately, He set his half-eaten shortbread on a plate at his heel, and shoved himself bodily behind the giant 1950's model.

Mrs. Fitz tossed her head back, her ginger pony-tail bouncing merrily as she laughed, throaty and full. She slapped Jemma lightly on her upper arm, and directed her gaze back down to the photo-album. "Now where were we?" She winked.

They flipped a page, and Jemma gasped - “ _Is that -_?”

“-Leo’s father, yes,” Mrs. Fitz’s hand brushed along the plastic cover affectionately.

“He looks _just_ _like_ Fitz,” Simmons started closer, dipping her head to get a better look at the man in the picture.

His eyes were looking straight out into the camera, a curious mix of lapis and cerulean, bright in the glint of summer sun that cut through the trees. In his arms, toddler Fitz was far more focused on the screw-driver in his hand, which he was waving about with abandon.

His father held the squirming mass of pint-sized enthusiasm against his chest, one armed, the other running through his barley blonde curls. A look of chuffed, if exasperated, pride shone outwards through the photograph.

“That’s my Malcolm,” Mrs. Fitz said, watching Jemma drink in the tiny details, “Handsome, wasn’t he?”

Jemma’s eye roved over the man in the photograph, cataloguing the grease stains on his forearms, the familiar roll of his sleeves, even the wide grease stain across his chest, where, she imagined, he’d dragged his hand clean instead of grabbing a flannel. She was nodding, heedless of the motion, and unaware of her best friend’s mother (met just that morning at the breakfast table), or her secret, knowing smile, as Jemma agreed.

“Very, _very_ handsome.” She murmured in answer, unthinking. Fitz coloured, behind the television set, and stilled, unsure of her soft tone. He stood and stared at her, watching the way her nut brown hair intermingled with his mam’s coppery, shorter locks as they leant over the old album. He felt as though something had fallen out of tune - or maybe, like some new instrument had started to thread itself into a melody - discordantly, he scratched at his cheek, made motion down the hall, and sequestered himself in the bathroom.

It was hard, sometimes, to talk about. So he didn’t. And he hadn’t. Not just to Jemma, but really, to anyone. Even the counsellors at school had given up after his pat answers and rote statements. He talked to his mam about it all, every now and then, but his dad, well, he wouldn’t have wanted him to dwell too much. No use bein’ blue, he used to say.

But it was like, the sounds of him, the way his feet plodded and how he’d shut doors, the off-key tenor when he’d shower or sing at the sink, it had all just hung in the air here, like music after the record ends. And it had been a comfort, that quiet; succor, almost, from the way the sounds of him had filled it all up, in life. It was like the end of a song, and somehow, Simmons, looking at his naked baby photos, she’d dropped the needle again, right into the middle of it, and brought something more besides, and it keened a bit in his chest, like a fiddle-string drawn with a bow.

It wasn’t her fault, of course. He’d been the one to ask her, once he learned about her Father’s Indonesia trip - it wouldn’t do to have her all alone. So Fitz turned the taps, and splashed some water in his face. He drew in breaths until his lungs were steady, and he gave himself a stern look in the mirror, and then he exited.

“-Good with his hands, just like my Malcolm, and curious, like 'im, too! Oh wouldn’t you know it, him with the ‘why’s’ and the ‘how’s’, and me, well - I never was one for technicalities - _‘Edna, you’re all heart and intuition, but you're a damned fool with a wrench_ ,’ That’s what my Malcolm used to say, dear man as he was, but Leo’ll tell you, I just can’t parse it out - even then, I couldn’t be _arsed_ half the time!” Fitz caught her chuckle down the hall, and couldn’t help the answering bounce of a grin.

“-I was working graveyard those days, horrible shift - But there’d be Malcolm, _porin’_ over a library book, tryin’ to figure out just exactly wha’ an oxidizer pre-burn injector was, an’ what it actually consisted of an’ how it all worked together in a space shuttle, and to find the right way to explain it to this preternaturally bright wee thing, _oh my heart,_ ” Mrs. Fitz tutted, patting her chest. “An then, _bless ‘im_ , he’d just say ‘Okay dad, thanks,’ and trundle off to go break m’toaster.”

He could see Jemma, ensconsed in her corner of the couch, hugging her knees, eyes lit up and attentive, smiling so wide her cheeks dented into dimples. “ _Classic_ Fitz.” A small tympani beat trilled against his ribcage, strangely.

Jemma sighed, flipping a page, “He never talks about him,” She said, her voice mild, but a little sad. He hoped it wasn’t pity.

“ _Well_ …” His mam began, her face thoughtful, as if trying to figure out just how much to say, “They were very close. It was hard on him. He was only eight years old. Boys at that age - their fathers are like, well, superheroes. They’re supposed to be invincible.”

Jemma reached out and rubbed Mrs.Fitz’s shoulder, her thumb sweeping back and forth. “I’m so sorry.”

“He had to grow up fast, my little lion-heart. Didn’t realize he’d morph into a grumpy, unimpressed _retiree_ by fifteen, _but_...” She held up her hands in mock defeat.

“I like him that way,” Jemma grinned, “Our Fitz. I often feel as though he’s missing a pipe and slippers though,”

Mrs. Fitz crowed in laughter.

* * *

 

“How’d it happen?”

it could have been the way the frost cobwebbed the window-edges, or the soft, downy flakes that drifted outside, blanketing them in the seclusion of Fitz’s small room.

Perhaps it was the communion wine, or the cider that followed, heady and spiced and drunk glass after glass; all amber, like the way she wished she could catch it all up, the moments of the night that had followed, when Edna had excused herself to sleep. She just wanted to fossilize it in her memory, and hoard it like something precious.

They had watched the Doctor Who christmas special with his head in her lap, and then, he’d refreshed their drinks, and she’d sunk into his side, and somehow, their fingers had twined under the afghan, and their ended up laying back to front, saying nothing at all, watching each other as hands drifted, somewhere between intoxication and sleep, friendship and not - something...more, maybe. It had dusted upon them, seeped into their marrow in bright, cold pin-pricks, like snowflakes melting against the skin.

He’d brushed against her hand as they’d moved along the slim corridor, his thumb sweeping against her knuckles.

When they’d got to his room, they both slipped into their respective beds, and let the moment fade. He shuffled close to the edge, dropping his hand down, slow as molasses, to push a strand of hair behind her ears. His gaze was soft and dark and intimate, and the question had slipped, unbidden, past her teeth.

‘How’d it happen?”

Fitz’s hand slipped beneath his covers again, quickly, like a fishing line reeled back to the boat.

“Car accident.” He whispered from the nest of his quilts. “It happened all at once. One minute, I was goin’ on about hydrostatic transistors, and then my arm’s hurting bad, and he’s slumped against the dash.”

Jemma’s hand was at his face, brushing away tears before he even knew he was crying.

“I know I’m, like...sensitive? Or wha’ever? Always have been -  _But he was too_. No shame in cryin’, no shame in feelin’ what you feel, he used to tell me. Just try to be brave and do good. But I didn’t _know_ how to feel when he died, all sudden-like. An’ he was s’posed _to show me_ what it all _meant_ \- to be brave and do good an’ how to, how to -” Fitz sniffed thickly, dragging his wrist against his nose.

“Oh, Fitz,” Jemma’s voice was honey. It was low and soothing, and her thumb at the corner of his eye was tender.

“...He was _s’posed_ to show me how to be _a man_ , y’know? Because he was _like_ me, but he got it _right_. He figured it out, somehow? How to be _brave_ and _strong_ and do right by his family and how to hold it together, and _Jem_ , I _just_ -” Fitz leaned into her touch. His tears were hot against her cool palm, and he hiccoughed, and sucked back a tiny sob.

“It’s so hard without him. I rem’ber ‘im so well, but then, _sometimes_? _I’ll forget_? It’s so tough, and I don’t know how to - to just, _be_. I wish he were here, _all the time_. I wish he’d seen me get _han’ picked_ for the academy - I _wish_ he’d met you.” His throat was constricted and tight, strangling the things he wished he could say to her, about how it is to miss a parent, how it aches like a pit has been scraped out bloody, and how the worst is when it starts to mend, somehow, like you can heal from it, like it can just be fine, because some days it is, and some days, like today, it really is not.

He clutched her hand, painfully. “Funny thing about fathers...” He manages, and his gaze is pleading and tender and all softened at the edges, and she doesn’t understand the enormity of the thing she’s feeling, how deep of a well he’s struck (But she will. Someday. Someday, he will say ‘More than that’, and she will say ‘Maybe there is’, and they will understand).

* * *

 

She tosses, shiplike, against the currents of her mind, the stormy thoughts clattering against the hull of sleep, rousing her drowsy, drowned brain to alertness.

_Funny thing about fathers._

She flips onto her side, and curls, foetal, in the womblike closeness of Fitz’s tiny room.

_The funny thing about fathers is that you hardly notice them most of the time, puttering in the background as they do. They’re more distant than mothers, who are always hovering so close, ready for a chat or a nosh at midnight._

Jemma sits up, and turns to Fitz, lying there like an inch-worm, tucked into the chrysalis of sleep, breath puffing out his slack mouth. She runs her finger-tips over his features. His straight-edge jaw, the cut of his brow, the long line of his nose. She brushes the back of her fingers over his cheekbone.

The funny thing about fathers was that they taught you how to be. How to be strong, and how to be brave, and how to speak your mind, even when they were wrong, or when they had silly ideas about your friends, and they taught you how to be firm, and how to argue, and regardless of the fights, they still loved you.

Even if they didn’t like your best friend, or suggested that you were getting distracted by your hormones, or that your school work was flagging because your head was full-up of boy-nonsense, and that they didn’t like it, not one bit.

The funny thing was, even when you hated them, a little bit, you still craved their good opinion, and their pride, and their approval.

And the funny thing was, fathers could be daft and wrong and it still didn’t matter. You wanted them around anyways.

Jemma half-crawls over Fitz’s prone form,  sinking her cold feet like an anchor into the covers, behind his. He shivers, bodily, and she knows, from the way that his body stills, that he is awake.

She shifts, caterpillaring one wiggle at a time, further beneath the layered quilts, pillowing her face between his shoulder blades, and tentatively, winding an arm around his middle. He inches back, bringing them flush, body to body, and a sigh shudders through him, as if he’d been holding his breath, and could finally exhale. He relaxes into her hold, and she, in turn, pulls him tighter, molding her curves to his angles.

Fitz rearranges their arms so his overlays hers, and interlinks their fingers.

“I’ll call him in the morning,” She murmurs, her breath warm and moist, eddying against the flat plane of his back.

He pulls their joined hands up to his lips, and kisses her knuckles. “Go to sleep, Jem,” He rumbles, his voice too tired and lazy to leave his chest completely. It is familiar, the way they fall asleep like this, something natural.

And on Christmas morning, when Edna peeks in to see Jemma curved around her boy like a shell, like a shield, and him, looking young and safe and at peace in her arms, she quietly closes the door, warmth in her heart, as she thinks about the presents under the tree, and how the real one, the truest one, is curled around her son. Her Leo.

Their Leo, now.


End file.
